


Like My Violin

by mandysimo13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fondling, M/M, POV John Watson, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 13:19:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2582846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandysimo13/pseuds/mandysimo13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock tries to convince John that playing a human is no different from playing the violin</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like My Violin

“Of all the ridiculous,” Sherlock muttered under his breath. They had just left a crime scene - _the butler actually did it with a candlestick how boring not worth my sodding time -_ but apparently Donovan had said something to Sherlock that made him puff up like some kind of posh bird and storm out without another word. John hadn’t heard exactly what Donovan had said to Sherlock but it had put him in a mood somewhere being irritated and agitated. John was expecting a full on tantrum when they climbed into the cab.

He wasn’t disappointed. The moment the doors closed and John rattled off the address _\- 221 Baker Street, thanksomuch -_ Sherlock exploded in frustration. “Who the hell does she think she is?”

John smirked and replied to the rhetorical question, “I believe she thinks herself Sally Donovan, sergeant for London’s Finest.”

Sherlock scrunched up his face and spat back, “Oh very funny, John Watson. Do you know what she said to me?”

“Haven’t the foggiest.”

“She had the audacity to doubt my sexual prowess.”

John nearly swallowed his tongue. “Come again?”

“When I said I couldn’t understand the apparently inherent predisposition for women unhappy with their marriages to go after the hired help Donovan,” he said the name with a sneer as if it had left behind a nasty aftertaste, “said ‘Of course you wouldn’t understand, freak.’ When I asked for her to explain, you know how I despise not understanding, she said I wouldn’t understand because she thinks I'm inept in the bedroom department.” Sherlock finished his tirade with a scowl and turned his attention to the window.

John coughed into his hand and licked his lips, mouth suddenly dry. “So she called you inexperienced?”

“What she actually said was ‘I wouldn’t know what to do with a woman if she was naked and spread in front of my face’.”

John involuntarily snorted in amusement and immediately regretted it.

“Oh you think that’s funny, don’t you?”

“No I don’t-”

“Oh yes! Big brained freak, couldn’t possibly have an idea of how to please a person!”

“Now I didn’t say anything like that.”

“But you agree with her?”

John hesitated, trying to formulate the words that would get him out of the cab without a sulking roommate. Never mind the fact that picturing Sherlock doing anything sexual would give him one very big problem in his trousers. “I think that if you had the inclination to do so you would be a very adequate lover.”

“Adequate,” Sherlock huffed, clearly not impressed with John’s wording. “I would break,” he growled the word, “them.”

The cab pulled up to their flat and Sherlock jumped out, clearly still agitated, leaving John to pay the cabbie. John followed his sulking roommate through the door and up the stairs. When they walked through the door to the flat Sherlock made his way directly to the couch flopping his giant person onto it. He threw a hand over his face and muttered, “You don’t believe me.”

“Sherlock,” John tried to stop another tantrum before it began but Sherlock steamrolled the words John was about to say.

“No, don’t start! You don’t believe me.” Sherlock huffed and twisted so he was facing the cushions on the couch, giving John the cold shoulder. “I’m a musician, dammit.” His words came out more like a pout than anything else.

John was caught somewhere between not wanting to know for his own benefit and wanting Sherlock to elaborate, also for his benefit. “What does being a musician have to do with anything?”

“Oh now you want to know?”

“You obviously want me to know.” John strode over to the coffee table and sat on the edge and waited for Sherlock to continue. “Out with it then.”

In one fluid motion Sherlock sat up and spun his body to face John. It was so fast that John would have toppled if he had been standing. As it was, he resisted the urge to scoot further back on the coffee table; They were entirely too close together. _Brilliant idea, Watson, sitting so close._

“What you and Donovan seem to forget about musicians is that they are very,” the detective dropped his voice an octave, “very good with their hands.” John licked his lips involuntarily at the sight Sherlock made just then. Flushed cheeks, mussed hair, rumpled clothing from the way he had flung himself on the couch, and intense eyes that were currently focused on John. His heart beat just a bit faster, his body just a touch warmer than normal.

“Hands?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and held his hands in front of John’s face. _Were they always that big? Fingers that long?_ “I’m a violinist, John. My hands are my tools for making fantastic sounds. Playing an instrument isn’t so far off from playing a human.”

John tilted his head like a confused dog. “You don’t play people, Sherlock.”

“Hush, was a metaphor.” He paused and wiggled his fingers. “Do you realize the speed at which I can move my fingers? To go from making a violin sing to make a person cry out takes almost no effort.”

John swallowed hard, unsure of where this absurd, and frankly arousing, conversation was headed. “And you know this from experience, do you?”

“Observe.”

With not other preamble Sherlock had shot up from the couch and was seated behind John on the coffee table and had wrapped his hands lightly around John’s neck, his legs spread on either side of John’s.

“Sherlock what the hell are you doing?”

Sherlock angled his head to John’s ear. “Providing evidence to my statement. Now observe. If by the time I am through with you and you have not uttered a peep,” he breathed out against John’s ear, “Then I fully rescind my previous statement concerning the comparison between humans and instruments.”

Not wanting to seem affected John just briefly nodded and Sherlock took that to be consent.

Sherlock wasted no time in demonstrating his theory. He slid his palms down John’s chest, stopping about midway down his sternum. “You know,” Sherlock said as his fingers crept back up, unbuttoning buttons on John’s button down shirt, fingers working as if he were tuning his violin, “If I were to equate playing you, right now, to playing an instrument.” He hooked his fingers into the now half opened shirt and spread the fabric pack, baring John’s chest. “I’d equate the experience to playing a cello.”

Sherlock ran the fingers of his left hand lightly up his sternum, all the way up his neck to rest just beneath John’s left ear. He mirror the movement with his right. And by fuck, if John didn’t want to make some kind of noise before he certainly did now. A sigh, a gasp, something. But he wouldn’t give Sherlock the satisfaction of making it so easy.

Those lovely fingers of Sherlock’s began to move again, thumbs tracing the underside of John’s jaw while his forefingers traced the sides coming together just below his bottom lip. Sherlock’s left hand tilted John’s head up and to the right while the right hand cradled his jaw. His left hand started to travel down John’s neck, fingers splaying to cover as much skin as possible on their movement downward. When he reached John’s left clavicle he lightly raked his nails along the bone, traveling to his shoulder. His fingers curled into his palm and he dragged his knuckles across his left pectoral, skipping all contact near his nipple.

John bit his lip. It was torture but he didn’t want it to stop. He was afraid if he made any noise Sherlock would stop. Not that he expected Sherlock to do more than touching above the waist. But if he was left with an incredible hard on after this experience he wanted as much material at which to masturbate to for many, many days to come.

Sherlock left his left hand on John’s sternum, strumming his fingertips back and forth between his pectorals, dragging his nails across the skin every now and then. His right hand moved from holding John’s jaw to caressing the entire front of John’s throat, traveling slowly, achingly downward. John kept his head conveniently angled and Sherlock took advantage of his positioning to bend his head against the side of his neck and breathe on the skin there, raising goosebumps.

It was too much. Without intending to John bit his lip and whimpered.

“Your neck muscles are fluttering beneath my fingers, John.” He raised his head from John’s neck to whisper in his ear, “Just like the strings of my violin.”

“Christ,” John exhaled.

“The name’s Sherlock, actually,” Sherlock purred in response. He pressed himself as close as possible to John and John could feel the unmistakable hardness of Sherlock pressing into his lower back.

John couldn’t take it anymore and he leapt up from the coffee table. “Alright, you win. Very adequate metaphor.” He started towards the stairs to his room, “Now if you don’t mind I’m going to just-”

“Would you like me to help with that?”

John stood frozen with one foot in the doorway, refusing to turn around. “I think you ‘helped’ quite a bit actually.”

“Come on John,” Sherlock coaxed from behind him. “I want to know what other sounds I can draw from you.”

John’s face reddened in embarrassment and sudden anger. “I’m not just some instrument for you to play around with and toss aside when you get a new hobby, Sherlock!”

Sherlock was suddenly pressed against his back and his hands had found their place on John’s hips. John involuntarily sucked in a breath at the pressure on his hips and he gripped the door frame. “One thing you should know about me John,” he said before bending to John’s ear again, lips almost touching his earlobe. “I never abandon a hobby that thrills me. And you, Doctor John Watson, thrill me.” The last words rolled like thunder into John’s ear and he shivered, groaning in spite of himself. “Let me touch you, John,” his fingers gripped harder as he said his name. “Let me, to coin an old phrase, make some music.”

"Have you been planning this," John asked weakly, focusing on keeping his knees from giving out.

"I had thought about it. And Donovan gave me the perfect excuse to try."

 

John swallowed thickly and nodded. "Under one condition.”

“Anything.”

“I get to play you next.”


End file.
